He let those words hang in the air.
“We want them to hate you, you see. That's the goal.”
It took me a day or two to settle with the idea of being dog bait. Cobra wouldn't talk to anyone. Chik wrote letters that he stashed under his pillow, not ready to let Golden Boy censor them.
“How can we be dog bait, PeeWee?” I said, the two of us sitting on a small hill of sand, watching Shig and Golden Boy pound each other in a sandball fight. “I mean, we supposed to be soldiers. Right?”
“All I know is it's orders, so we gotta do it.”
I squinted at Shig and Golden Boy, so easily having fun, not even thinking about it.
“If we don't do it,” PeeWee added, “then we going see the inside of some lousy brig, ah? Have a court-martial. Take away our stripes.”
I laughed. “Stripes?”
“Well, we got one.”
“They can have it.”
But the brig would be even worse shame than dog bait. Pop would never be able to lift his head again. Me, either.
“Listen,” PeeWee said. “Don't think about it. Just do it. That's what I going do. Ain't no big deal. So we the bait. Why fight it? Only bring trouble.”
“Yeah.”
Right then I decided, I'm a U.S. Army soldier. I'll do my duty just as I said I would. But who said I had to like it?
“How come they think we smell different from white guys?” I said.
PeeWee shook his head. “Beats me.”
Three days later Leroy took us back to Cat Island. We walked through the jungle to the dog camp. The Swiss was there with ten handlers and ten dogs. Waiting.
We eyed each other.
None of the handlers looked much older than us in their khaki pants and olive T-shirts.
The dogs were all kinds of breeds, mostly big dogs. When they sat, their heads came up to just below their handlers' waists.
The Swiss walked down the line.
“Shepherd, boxer, bloodhound, pit bull,” he said. “Here's your Irish setter, Labrador, and Bouvier. These two are a mix. Some of these animals will be better than others, of course, so we'll be weeding out the timid ones. No one but the handlers will touch, feed, groom, encourage, reward, or command the dogs, is that clear?”
The dogs were on silver choke chains. Each sat quietly on the left side of its handler. Nice, I thought. Handsome animals.
The Swiss assigned ten of us to the ten handlers. “The rest of you follow me,” he said.
I got assigned to a handler named Smith. His dog was Kooch, a German shepherd.
Cobra got hooked up with King, a Labrador.
Chik got the Bouvier, Bingo.
Shig got Spit, a pit bull.
My dog was the biggest. He held his head high and looked smart.
Smith seemed about eighteen, nineteen at the most. Hard to tell with haoles. He stood about four inches taller than me, with a head that seemed too small for his body. He didn't look ugly, just different. He had a canvas bag slung over one shoulder and didn't offer to shake hands.
His dog, Kooch, gazed at me and wagged his tail. I couldn't help smiling—somebody's pet, like Leroy said, volunteered to serve in the army.
“Hey, boy,” I said, forgetting what the Swiss had just told us. I stuck out my hand for Kooch to smell.
Smith jerked back on the choke chain. “Don't touch or speak to the dog.”
“Sorry.”
“Follow me.”
Smith and Kooch headed into the trees.
The other handlers each took a separate path.
Ten minutes later Smith stopped in a clearing. He sat on a fallen tree and motioned for me to find a spot myself.
“Don't mind that old Swiss guy,” he said. “He sounds grumpy, but he's not as bad as he seems. What's your name?”
“Eddy Okubo, sir.”
“You don't have to call me sir. Just Smith.”
“Okay… Smith.”
“Now listen, Kubo. The first and most important thing you need to know is what the old man said—this dog is not your pet. He's not my pet, either, but we have a certain relationship.”
Smith ran his hand over Kooch's head.
The dog panted in the heat.
“He's a war dog. And that's a different kind of animal than somebody's house dog. He answers to me and only me. So get any notion you have about making friends with him out of your head. That's just not in the cards. Understood?”
“Understood.”
Smith studied me long enough to satisfy himself that I got it.
“What are all those other dogs doing?” I asked, thinking of the hundreds of kennels I saw. “I mean, we not going work with all of them, right?”
“No, we've got all kinds of work going on here. What you're doing is just part of it.”
I nodded. “All these dogs were somebody's pets?”
“Sure were. You know, most people think that if they have a vicious dog, he would be perfect for this kind of duty. But it's the exact opposite. What you want is a dog that obeys. You got to have some aggressiveness, sure, but it's more important to have an animal that will do exactly what you tell him to do. And he has to have a keen sense of smell and hearing. You want smart, not vicious.”
Made sense to me.
Smith put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. “So let's get started.”
I heard voices not far off and glanced through the trees. Cobra and his handler were hiking parallel to us. I wondered how he was going to do this, because he hadn't settled with the dog bait idea like I had. But worse for him was that he didn't like dogs—unless they were tied up or behind some-body's fence. I grinned. A little rat dog like Sharky would probably seem pretty good to him right now.
Smith heard the voices, too, and headed away until we couldn't see or hear anyone else.
Finally, he stopped.
“All right, in a minute I'm going to send you off into the trees here.”
He glanced back to be sure no one else was nearby. “Everyone's doing the same exercise today, so we have to get some distance between us.”
Kooch stood patiently.
“Now, you…what's your name again?”
“Eddy Okubo.”
“Right. Okay, Kubo. You need to watch out for a few things on this island. First, we got some nasty snakes—copperheads, cottonmouths, and coral snakes. All poisonous, all deadly. I'll point them out if we see them. The important thing is that if you spot one, give it plenty of room. We got some stuff for snakebites, but believe me, you don't want to get bit. Watch for gators, too. They pretty much don't want to be anywhere near you, but if you stumble onto one of 'em you might find yourself in a heap of trouble. I once saw a man get his leg took off by one. There's also boars, and they're dangerous, too, but we don't see those too much. And deer, but they ain't nothing to worry about. I seen a scorpion once or twice,” Smith said, wincing. “Man, I hate those things!”
Smith was a talker, all right.
I glanced around the jungle. It was hard to imagine that so many dangerous creatures could be on such a small island.
“So, here's the plan for today, Kubo. And probably for the next week or so. Depends on when the dog gets it. Some learn faster than others. Personally, I think the shepherd is the best breed we got in the K-9 Corps. So we're kind of lucky, you and me.”
He glanced down and rubbed Kooch's head. “Yeah. You're a smart dog, ain't ya, boy?”
Kooch looked up at Smith, his tongue dripping.
“Lucky dog, too,” Smith added.
“How come lucky?”
Smith hesitated.
“You heard of a suicide dog?”
I shook my head.
“Well, it's kind of hush-hush, but they're training those here, too. Boxers, mostly. What they are is dogs with explosives tied to their necks. They train them to leap into dugouts and foxholes. The explosives are set off by radio.”
“They blow up the dog?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But…”
Smith shook his head. “This is war.”
We sat in silence, thinking.
Smith sighed and reached into the canvas bag. He pulled out a jar. It was packed with something wet and red. He held it up and gazed into it, gleaming in the sunlight.
He tossed me the jar.
Looked like guts. “What is it?”
“Horsemeat in blood and water.”
He pulled a coil of string out of his bag. “That meat is for the scent.”
“Scent?”
“Uh-huh. Kooch's going to get a whiff of what's in that jar—and he'll want to eat it, but you're not going to give it to him. Not yet, anyway. You take a piece of meat out and tie it to this string. Then you drag it into the trees. Me and the dog will stay back here awhile and give you a chance to find a place to hide—not too close, now—go off a ways. Then he's going to find you.”
“That's it?”
“The minute he alerts me to where you are, I'm going to fire a shot with a small air gun. When you hear that shot, I want you to fall down, lie on your back, take the rest of that meat out of the jar, and put it on your throat. The dog's going to come up and eat it off you, right there under your chin.”
Smith tossed me his pocketknife. I cut off a small piece of meat, raw and smelly, and tied it to the string. When I handed the knife back, Smith ran both sides of the blade along his pants leg before folding it back into the handle.
Kooch's eyes never left the raw meat. He rose to his feet when I unscrewed the lid. I let him sniff inside the jar. He tried to snap the meat up.
Smith jerked back on the leash.
I put the lid back on the jar.
Smith took off the choke chain and replaced it with a leather collar. “When this collar goes on, he knows he's going to work. At least, that's what I'm trying to get through to him.”
“Looks like a smart dog,” I said.
Smith eyed me, as if something about me didn't quite fit. “How old are you, anyway?” he said. “You look kind of scrawny.”
“Uh… eighteen,” I mumbled.
Smith humphed. “Not a chance. I'm eighteen, and you ain't that. My guess is sixteen—seventeen at the most.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, pretending I'd heard something.
“Hey, it don't matter to me, Kubo. Not for a minute. So go ahead and take off. Go out as far as you can. Hide somewhere. The dog's going to hunt you down. Don't forget about the horsemeat, now—when he finds you, lie down and put it on your throat like I said. Understand?”
I nodded.
“I'll give you a ten-minute lead. Go!”
I dragged the hunk of meat into the trees, keeping away from rotting logs and those quiet ponds. Alligators and snakes snapped and slithered in my head. I had to find out where those things hid. I'd never seen a snake in my life, but that was about to change. At least I had boots on, and now I knew why.
I heard a shout far away. Cobra? Chik? Maybe they had raw horsemeat on their throats right now. That was so weird—a dog eating raw meat off your neck.
But it was what the army wanted.
I stumbled over a fallen tree and found a carved-out sandy trench behind it. I could get down under it and hide.
I glanced back and saw only the motionless jungle. I found a stick, then poked it under the tree, rocking the trunk with my foot. When no snakes or scorpions flew out, I crouched under it and waited.
Stillness surrounded me.
No sounds, no breeze. All those dogs running around looking for us, and not one bark. That was something, how they worked so quietly.
Five minutes passed.
Ants, a motionless lizard, white clouds hanging in the sky. Shadows on my arm.
I peeked up over the tree. Not even a bird or a dragonfly. I loosened the lid and set the open jar of horsemeat on the sand.
Ten minutes later I heard a quiet snap. I peeked over the tree.
Kooch and Smith—the dog's nose roaming the exact same ground I had stepped on.
Kooch sniffed more frantically now, sweeping the sand, inching silently closer.
He stopped, head up, alerting Smith with two raised ears. Not one growl, not even a whimper.
I stood like Smith said, and Smith shot his air gun.
I fell as if shot, and quickly scooped out the slimy meat and held it dripping watery blood on my neck.
Within seconds Kooch's big wet nose was inches from mine. One swallowing gulp and the meat was gone. He licked my neck and my face.
“You like that, huh?” I whispered, rubbing his ears. “Yeah, you a good dog.”
Smith ran up and leashed Kooch, stroking him and praising him.
I sat up and rubbed sand between my hands to get rid of the stink. It didn't work.
Smith pulled another jar out of his bag and tossed it to me. “Let's do it again.”
I caught it and stood up, brushing the sand off my pants. “He didn't even bark.”
“Trained that way. You want the dog to alert you to the enemy, not the other way around.”
Kooch sat just beside Smith's left foot, panting. “He's good,” I said. “He found me easy.”
“He'll be finding you Japs without meat in no time.”
I glanced away when he said “Japs.” What are you haoles, stupid? Don't you know that's insulting?
“He can find me because of the meat,” I said. “That don't mean he can tell a Japanese from anyone else.”
“Franz says he can.”
“I don't believe it.”
“Why not?”
“You think we smell diff'rent from you?”
Smith gave me a curious look. “Well, don't you?”
“I don't see why we would.”
Smith nodded. Then he grinned. “Guess we'll find out, huh?”
After Kooch ate the second hunk of meat off my neck, I found a rust-colored pond to wash up in—of course, me and Smith checked it out for alligators first. What we didn't see was the water moccasin racing toward us.
“Jeese!” Smith yelped, leaping back as I sprinted for the trees.
But it veered away from us and slithered into the weeds. It was the first snake I'd ever seen, and it was in the water.
“Dang things,” Smith said. “Lucky for us he ran away like you did.” He shuddered. “Go ahead. You can wash up now.”
I inched back to the water and quickly cleaned my hands.
“You can sometimes see alligator eyes poking up in the water,” Smith said. “Look like two lumps. And they hide along the shore, too, just like that snake. Sometimes you never know they're in there until they explode up and scare the living daylights out of you—could be they might come after you, too, if you get them mad. So never forget to check first. You don't want to be surprised by anything in this place.”
I scrubbed as Smith went on. The smell of blood didn't want to come off my hands.
“We'll do this horsemeat thing a few more times over the next week or so,” Smith said. “Then we'll move on to the real stuff.”
I sat back on my heels. “Huh?”
“I'll watch out for you, Kubo. Relax.”
That afternoon we met up with the rest of the guys back in the clearing. The handlers and their dogs went their way, and we went back to the boat.
“Did you do the horsemeat thing?” Cobra asked.
“Yeah, can you believe it?”
“I can't get the stink off my hands.”
“Check out mines,” Chik said, sticking his fingers in
Cobra's face. Cobra batted him away. “Bakatare! You prob'ly ate that meat yourself, ah?”
Chik laughed. “Yum. Ate it raw, like a man.”
“You sick,” Cobra spat.
“If this is war, give me more,” Chik said, wagging his eyebrows.
The Sugar Babe was sleeping in the water right where we'd left it. And so was Leroy. All you could see of him were his dirty socks, resting up on the gunnel. We took off our boots and waded out. Felt good on
my hot and sweaty feet.
“Hey, Leroy,” Shig called. “You still alive?”
The socks moved. Leroy's head popped up. He squinted and rubbed a hand over his face. “How long I been asleep?” he said, yawning.
“Too long,” Cobra said. “Take us home.”
Leroy dragged himself up and scratched his belly, then went to the wheel and fired up the engine as we climbed aboard.
Cat Island shrank behind us, quiet and mysterious. “Cobra,” I said. “You think we smell diff'rent from white guys?”
“I hope so,” he said, shifting his eyes toward Leroy.
“No, really. You think we smell diff'rent?”
“Nope.”
“It's crazy.”
“Going get worse.”
I frowned and turned away. So far only bad things happened, and always just when it was getting good. For a while at Camp McCoy I'd thought we would be treated like real soldiers.
But no. Not us.
Halfway back to Ship Island, Sugar Babe's engine coughed up some black smoke.
And died.
Leroy tried to start it back up again, but it wouldn't kick over. “Dang,” he said, then ducked down to the engine room.
The breeze was strong and getting stronger. Sugar Babe rolled side to side, the wrinkled gulf waters spanking the hull.
Ten minutes later Leroy poked his head up. “Anybody here a mechanic?”
We shook our heads, a few faces turning green from the rolling boat.
“I know a little bit,” I said, when nobody else spoke up. “My pop builds boats like this.”
“Well, hot dang, son, get yourself on down here, then.”
The engine room was some stink place. A half inch of dirty bilgewater mixed with oil and diesel fuel sloshed around my feet, the smell musty and sickening if you weren't used to it.
Leroy swept his hand over the gray-painted engine. “Take a look-see. I sure can't figure it out.” Sweat dripped off his forehead. He wiped it away with his thumb.
I backed off. Between Leroy's smell and the bilgewater I didn't know how long I could stay down there.
I studied the engine.
Seemed strange to me that Leroy made a living with his boat and didn't know how to fix it when it broke down.
Eyes of the Emperor Page 9
